


Adorare

by kaguyahime7



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-04 03:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13355562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaguyahime7/pseuds/kaguyahime7
Summary: Adorare, Italian in origin, “To love with one's entire heart and soul”. A character study of Patrick Turner through the years.





	1. Eileen

His mother's hands are permanently stained with dirt from her garden and smell distinctly of flour, hard work, and Persil detergent. 

Ten-year-old Patrick Turner contemplates her trademark scent as she dabs a wet washcloth on his feverish brow. The chemical smell of detergent mixes with a residual odor from the awful, homemade garlic syrup she dosed him with earlier and he nearly gags in revulsion. He writhes beneath a mountain of carefully hand-stitched quilts as another coughing spasm rattles his body. Her hands flutter above him like anxious birds in flight. 

He knows pain—scrapes from falling off his bicycle, burns from filching biscuits before they properly cooled—but this is a new kind of pain that frightens him immensely. The impressive adjectives he's memorized diligently in the classroom are lost in the throes of pneumonia and besides, none of them seem accurate enough to describe his suffering. He tosses and turns in an attempt to find a comfortable position. How can he feel so terribly cold and hot at the same time? Despite his discomfort though, he refuses to cry in front of anyone, even his mother. His mouth puckers and grimaces in search of sustenance. Right on cue, Eileen Turner steadily pours salty broth past his quivering lips and whispers soothing platitudes about how he'll be better soon. 

Soon is an eternity in the eyes of a boy though. Soon could be in a few minutes, as in his favorite almond sponge will be ready to eat soon. Soon could also be in a month, when his father promised to take him fishing. Soon might be in another ten years, when he'll clock in at the ancient age of twenty. 

He dimly notices tiny, dark specks floating in the broth. The complex scents tickle his sinuses. His mother painstakingly maintains a small plot with neat rows of cooking herbs and root vegetables perfectly lined up like trained soldiers. These are the flavors that season his earliest memories. There is little room for frivolity in her garden even though the Great War is over and she can grow non-essential produce again. Basil, thyme, oregano, beets, potatoes, turnips, and carrots. The last one he absolutely detests and will only force down when his father berates him for wasting food. His bedroom overlooks his mother's private Garden of Eden and he thinks that at least being ill means he doesn't have to pull any weeds today.

Another series of deep, wet coughs erupt from his chest. Once the fit ends, Eileen Turner inserts a thermometer into Patrick's mouth and rests her hand against his hot forehead. Faintly, he can hear his father gruffly inquiring as to his son's condition from the doorway. His mother whispers back that Patrick will be hearty and hale in no time at all. His father grumbles some more and tells her not to coddle their son too much or he'll never amount to anything.

The familiar sounds of chirping bicycle bells and children's laughter in the neighboring lane stir a yearning in him. He wants to rejoin his friends and play. But at this exact moment he's so very tired and keeping his eyes open is incredibly difficult. Darkness crowds his vision but he is aware enough to see her hands clasped together in silent prayer. 

His mother will continue to nurse him back to health without breaking her vigil once. His weak declarations that he's close to death are dismissed as illness-induced nonsense. She swears he will recover under her care, and true to her word he is out of bed after a week under her watchful eye. He sprints out the front door and immediately fills his lungs with fresh air. He pretends not to hear her plaintive requests to not over-exert himself so soon. He can barely remember the cool, calming touch of her hand against his forehead by the time he finds his friends.


	2. Marianne

Piano hands, that's what Marianne has. Long, delicately tapered fingers that effortlessly glide across the ivory and black keys of the used Steinway that dominates half of their living room. Patrick's father loudly disapproved of the purchase as a wasteful indulgence. His mother, on the other hand, slipped a few crinkled bank notes into his jacket without ever passing her own judgment.

Patrick was head-over-heels in love with Marianne Parker and would have bought his new bride the moon if she'd asked. The complete surprise on her face when the piano arrived was worth every pound sterling in the world. 

Marianne had spotted the piano in a music shop during a summer evening stroll. The shop had a decent inventory of used and new pianos, spinets, and even an ancient pipe organ. Patrick had always regretted that he could not afford fancy jewels or a closet full of dresses for his wife on his newly-licensed GP salary, despite her constant insistence that she married him for love, not his earning potential. A “previously-loved” piano, as she called it, was worth more to her than all the crown jewels because the gift came from Patrick's heart. Music was something that no one could ever take away her, and she once quipped to him that not even the Axis could destroy her love for it. 

But the fall-out from the war had nearly destroyed him instead. By the time he'd finally convinced himself to get treatment at Northfield, he was at a point where Marianne couldn't touch him without an adverse reaction. He was terrified to hold his own wife's hand and fell to pieces at any sudden noises. But things were better now. The anguished screams of soldiers he could not save were quieter, although not completely gone. His hands shook less when he held a stethoscope or a syringe. Most importantly, he did not hesitate when Sister Evangelina handed him a squirming, crying, absolutely beautiful baby boy that had his cautious eyes and Marianne's cheeky smile. 

The cacophony from Timothy's raucous piano lesson dies out as he hops off the piano bench and he graciously allows his mother to perch herself instead. Patrick loudly compliments their son on his musical prowess but sheepishly removes wads of cotton scrap from his ears once Timothy turns around and asks for Mummy to play something. Timothy scrambles into his father's lap as Marianne wrinkles her nose at the two of them and settles on the edge of the bench. The room goes completely silent and Patrick can almost hear the collective inhale as she launches into a spirited waltz. 

She loses herself in the melody, temporarily forgetting about the laundry that needs to be folded and the shirts that need be mended. He never ceases to be amazed at the pure, lighthearted sounds that she draws out of the instrument with a simple touch. The world he knows goes from monotone to colorful as he watches her hands dance across the keys. 

She finishes the piece with a drawn out crescendo and Timothy instantly bursts into applause. A bemused smile spreads across her face and she steps away from the scratched bench, calls Timothy to join her, and the two of them sweep a graceful bow together. 

This was the life he fought to return to after his sanity nearly slipped through his fingers like grains of sand. These were the two people who mattered more to him than anything in the world and he would protect them with his own two hands at any cost. He prays he will never take this truly charmed life for granted. 

Timothy shouts that he's hungry and Marianne promises to make his favorite pudding for dessert tonight. Patrick squeezes Marianne's hand to remind himself that this contentment is real. The three of them walk hand-in-hand into the kitchen with the last rays of sunshine stretching across their receding figures.


	3. Shelagh

Patrick has never been a religious man, but even he is convinced that Shelagh's hands are a gift from God. They are never still or idle and produce the most extraordinary feats. He doesn't believe in random miraculous acts, but he has absolute faith in his wife and his belief that she is capable of anything. 

It seems ages ago that he was afraid to be in the same room as her lest he lose control and ruin their working relationship. There were so many times their hands casually brushed together during a delivery or at the clinic that he nearly went mad with desire to touch all of her.

During this clandestine contact he noted her hands, like his, were calloused and paper-dry from years of harsh soaps and constant hand-washing. He studied every inch of those hands and cherished the images like a talisman. Now he is sated with happiness and comforted by the knowledge that he does not have to hide his feelings for her. A simple sign of affection--taking her hand in his—has become as natural as breathing.

But when her hands are not lovingly entwined with his, they are still busily tending to their growing family. Despite a long day of patients from the surgery, clinic and maternity home, she still finds time to sit with their daughter and read her bedtime story.

Angela's downy head lolls lazily against the crook of Shelagh's elbow. Angela occasionally interrupts Shelagh's steady recitation with questions about Peter Rabbit and why would he want to steal vegetables instead of cake?

Timothy, curled up in an armchair next to his stepmother and sister, sarcastically comments that Peter Rabbit would have taken Farmer MacGregor's cake but Sister Monica Joan got to it first. Patrick lowers his newspaper and glares at Timothy. Shelagh's mouth quirks in amusement but she continues reading without skipping a beat. At the end, Angela closes the book and babbles about just one more story before bedtime, pretty please.

“What shall we read next then, Angel girl?” asks Shelagh. She rifles through the pile of children's books on the coffee table and tactfully shoves _The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin_ out of Angela's eyesight.

Timothy looks up from his comic, sees her hiding the book, and cracks that Mum had better make sure the next selection doesn't include any bushy-tailed woodland creatures. Shelagh lightly remarks that if the next word out of his mouth is “s-q-u-i-r-r-e-l” then he can bid a fond farewell to his pocket money for the month. Timothy clamps his mouth shut and busies himself with another comic book. Angela, meanwhile, grabs her favorite storybook and looks pleadingly at her mother.

“Paddington again? We've read this one so often that you could recite it by yourself.” Shelagh laughs and cuddles Angela close. “Very well. I shall have to telephone Nurse Noakes and inform her that her gift was so well-received.”

Timothy, despite the mature image he tries to present to the outside world, is listening to the story too. He may be pretending to be too old for children's stories, but Patrick's trained eye shrewdly notes that he hasn't turned a single page of his latest comic book since Shelagh began reading again.

About midway through the story, Angela's voice trails off and she dozes in her mother's lap. Patrick takes that as a cue to smuggle her off to bed so Shelagh can tackle the rest of her household chores before it gets too late.

Patrick overhears Timothy grudgingly admit to Shelagh that yes, he liked the story too, and no, he's not too old for story time with his family. Shelagh teasingly reminds him that she and Patrick have a limited entertainment budget and he's stuck serving as comic relief for the long haul. Timothy's laugh, so much like Patrick's, echoes in the hallway as he walks to his room and quietly shuts the door.

Patrick watches from the living room as Shelagh sighs tiredly and finishes tidying the pile of books on the coffee table. She strolls into the kitchen, picks up a sponge, and twists the faucet top to release a steady stream of piping hot water. Soap bubbles float past her hunched shoulders as Patrick walks in. He tries to sneak a kiss but completely fails when she thrusts a drying towel into his chest without even turning around.

With the children asleep their house seems eerily quiet. But that isn't a bad thing anymore. Silence in his house used to be a measure of how miserable he and Timothy were after Marianne's sudden death. Now this stillness is a brief respite before the chaos of another busy day and it doesn't threaten to overwhelm him as it did before.

They finish the dishes in record time and exchange weary but affectionate smiles. She nearly drops a clean plate though when he suddenly pulls her into a fierce kiss. The plate clatters in the sink and she squeals about needing to get on with her work.

He leans her small frame against the wet counter top and brings her wrist to his lips, ghosting a kiss across the pulse point and grinning when she shudders with desire.

He whispers how much he loves her, heart and soul, and an indefinable sense of joy washes over him as their hands interlace together, and she swears to never let him go.


	4. Angela

Patrick nearly has a heart attack when Angela announces her engagement to the family. 

She wiggles her left hand in front of the family and he notices a miniature star glittering on her left ring finger. He really must be getting old not to have noticed it when she hugged him earlier. 

It makes him slightly breathless listening to her ebulliently retell the proposal story to all of them. She excitedly recounts the carefully planned candlelit dinner at Freddie's flat, how the poor chap fumbled with the ring and offered it to her with trembling fingers, how she nearly burst one of his eardrums shrieking “Yes” over and over again. They are an attentive audience for her tale, gasping and laughing at all the right times. 

Angela was always an animated speaker and used body language and lively gestures to communicate when words failed to capture her true emotions. She was very much like her mother in the respect, relying on nonverbal communication to relay all sorts of emotions. Patrick could always tell what was going on with Angela just by looking at her facial expressions and watching her hands. 

When Angela was angry, she would wring her hands like a sopping dish rag until they were raw and red with frustration. When she was happy, her hands danced and soared like gleeful birds in flight. When she was sad, her hands were still and lifeless—this frightened Patrick the most, the lack of motion in his normally vibrant daughter. 

Teddy jumps out of his seat and rushes to telephone Timothy with the news. His abrupt departure jostles the lamp above their dining room table. Warm amber light beams on Angela's engagement ring and shoots tiny little rainbow prisms across the room. He is nearly blinded by the display and the sheer force of her excitement. 

Patrick numbly begins clearing the table. All thoughts of eating and resuming their normal Sunday evening routine are steamrolled flat by this revelation. Teddy and Shelagh buzz around Angela as he carefully stacks dishes in the sink. Teddy asks if he can help the couple select cake flavors. Shelagh wraps her daughter in a vice-like hug and sheds enough tears to power a water wheel. 

Patrick stands at the sink and stares at his hands in a stupor. Angela's words echo repeatedly in his ears. He has so many questions about how to handle this next stage of his precious daughter's life. All of his fancy medical training and vast life experience have not prepared him for how to deal with his daughter's impending marriage. Timothy's own wedding seems like it was only yesterday. He regrets not making each of children promise to not grow up so quickly. 

He looks for the answers to his questions in the tiny creases and wrinkles that crisscross his hands. He knows these bones and finds comfort in the rote recitation of each one—distal phalanges, intermediate phalanges, proximal phalanges, metacarpals and carpals—as the rest of the evening descends into a flurry of wedding planning. 

A year later, he finds himself in front of the same church where he and Shelagh married after weathering a bomb scare, Timothy's brush with polio, and a crisis of faith. The world is not as chaotic as it was when he and Shelagh took their vows, and he is eternally grateful that none of his children will face that kind of nightmarish stress. 

The atmosphere of this blessed day should be picturesque and festive—a beautiful bride, devoid of nervousness and the very picture of serenity; her doting parents, tearful but brimming with delight; two brothers, elegantly attired and mature enough to rise above sibling pettiness.

Instead, Angela Julienne Turner chases her younger brother and threatens to beat the stuffing out of him if he cracks one more comment about her tripping down the aisle. The intoxicating scent of roses, freesia, and sweet pea blossoms whiffs past him as Angela attempts to hit Teddy with her bridal bouquet. Teddy slides behind his mother for protection but his lanky frame dwarfs hers by at least a foot. He darts and weaves to avoid her blows and winces when she socks him in the shoulder.

Timothy, meanwhile, sits cross-legged on the floor and scribbles “Mum” in messy black marker on a towering pile of tissue boxes. One box in the corner is carefully labeled “Dad, Tim and Teddy”. Both boys, impeccably dressed mere moments ago, now have wrinkles in their suit coats and Teddy's tie threatens to come undone for the third time that morning. 

Shelagh finally separates Angela and Teddy and sternly orders them into self-imposed silence until told otherwise. Angela whimpers about making a complete fool of herself in front of Freddie and the rest of their friends and family. Patrick instinctively strides over to comfort his daughter, but Shelagh calms her with a quick prayer and a light kiss on her forehead. 

Teddy peeks inside and calls out that everyone's in place. A swell of music begins and the two boys each latch on to either side of their mother. Shelagh frets one final time about straightening Angela's veil. Timothy and Teddy say in exhausted unison, “Leave it be, Mum”, and begin escorting her down the aisle. 

Angela shyly glances at her father beneath her veil. She bites her lip nervously in an endearing gesture that's been passed down from mother to daughter. 

“I'm so nervous, Daddy,” she says shakily. Her carefully applied eye makeup glistens under the gauzy white veil. Hastily she stares straight up to hold back any tears. 

“Auntie Trixie said this helps keep the mascara from bleeding,” she mutters. 

His heart wrenches at her wobbling voice. Words are lost to him in this fragile moment, but he covers her trembling hands and tells her that she's every bit as beautiful as her mother on their wedding day. 

Pink-tipped nails dig into her palms as she steadies herself. But her hands are calm when they loop around Patrick's elbow. Her first steps down the aisle have a certainty that wasn't there before. She does not falter at all, in fact. 

How can it be that she's grown up so quickly? Did he look away for a moment and she became an adult when he wasn't watching? Was it that long ago that he held her chubby, sticky fingers and witnessed her first steps? Selfishly he thinks he should not have let go of her hands, because once she learned how to walk on her own, it was only a matter of time before she ran towards her future.

They reach the end of the aisle and Patrick turns to her one final time. It almost hurts to look at her. She is an angel clothed in shining raiment and the very sight of her fills every cell in his body with so much joy that he might burst from it. The image of her face, radiant with happiness, will be engraved on his heart forever. 

“I love you,” she whispers.

He lets her hand slip away from his without any hesitation.


End file.
